Wonder
by soap and sanitizer
Summary: ten FFCCTCB drabbles/ficlets. character sketches, stupid ideas, and contemplation along with some guy on guy and choppy writing.
1. Chapter 1

hey y'all. this is celebration of FFCC finally getting a character sorter. oh, and it's for the slash fangirls out there for this pairing. i know you're out there.  
warnings: number three mentions dicks, number four has kissing.  
pairing: layle/keiss

**1.**

"Keiss, do you think this is really how it's supposed to go down?" Layle spreads his fingers and exposes the inked panels to the light. On the page are two men—well, supposedly.

One has a strong and pronounced nose with eyes that are narrowed, and a mouth that seems to be stretched into an everlasting smirk. The other is supposedly a twenty year old; this notion defies all logic, however, because he's only half the size of the other man, has glittery large eyes, and essentially the body of a woman, minus the breasts. (which really ruins any sort of enjoyment possible for Layle out of the graphic novel)

To top it all off, the larger of the two seems to be forcing himself on the smaller, and as the blond flips through the pages, Keiss' eyes following along panel by panel, they both find that the book ends in rape and then several wild professions of undying love.

Layle stares at the final page, which is decorated in light tones shaped like flowers, sparkles, and bubbles. He hums and flips back two pages, staring thoughtfully at the page now nestled before his sight.

"That doesn't look too different from regular sex, you know," comes Keiss' voice from over his shoulder, still apparently following along, despite the disturbed tone of his voice. The clavat nods his head, and stares at the image for a couple seconds longer, before he notices something. His index finger spreads even further out onto the page, exceeding its use of holding the binding open. The pad of the finger finally lands over the supposed 'entry area.'

"Is that where…?" He feels his companion's red hair rustle against his coat as the selkie nods. Layle opens and closes his mouth, unsure of what to say. "But that's his _asshole,_ Keiss."

Keiss finally leans back and away from the book, silent and considerate.

"I haven't even done that with a girl yet." Layle murmurs a little something after that, apparently intrigued by the concept. "I mean, sure, doggy style, but…in the butt?" The blond hears a rough laugh tumble out of the Guild Master's mouth.

"I don't think any girl would want to try it. Looks like it hurts."

**2.**

"Layle, do you use lipgloss or something?"

The aforementioned Clavat looks up from the crystalline water, relaxing his hand and allowing it to rest, limp, at his side. He cocks a blond eyebrow and quirks the corner of his mouth into a questioning smile. "Uh, no?" The blond snorts, and queries a vague 'why' before he resumes his prior activity of staring very intently on the grey-blue fish beneath the surface of the salt water.

A seagull calls, and Keiss hears a canon go off atop the mast of the shipwreck. "Your lips are just…really…" he pauses, scratching his head and watching as Layle suddenly jerks his arm back, and a fish leaps out from the water, only to flop back into the waves with a splash. The blond utters a curse and scrunches his face up, looking for another target.

"Really what?" The clavat somehow manages to sound infuriated and amused at the same time.

"Uh, shiny, I guess."

A chuckle, and then he whips his arm back again, hand clenched in a fist. This time, a huge, finned creature flails up and out from the water, sprinkling them both with water as it flies upward. Layle doesn't waste a moment as he holds his hand up again, and with another jerk, it speeds its way into the unreasonably large tin bucket the redhead's been holding. The tail sticks out and flops this way and that.

Layle turns around and glances into the pail (if it can even be called that, damn if the thing wasn't huge).

"I told you the bucket wasn't going to be too small." He proceeds to wipe his mouth with his fore arm, and Keiss doesn't fail to notice how his lips stay the same amount of quote unquote shiny. The redhead furrows his brow and hefts the bucket so he can hold it from the bottom.

**3.**

The bed squeaks as Keiss plants himself onto it, making himself completely naked as he undoes his bandana and tosses it on the night stand. He crosses his legs and looks at the wrinkled in the floral patterned blanket. The Selkie can't help but feel a little nervous as he sits opposite of the blond in the rented room, cheeks flushed an odd shade of red.

Layle, on the other hand is sitting there, quite calmly (if not a little perplexed), in all his pasty barren glory. His lower body is covered by the comforter, and Keiss watches, still blushing something awful, as the blond scratches what would seem to be his knee.

"Would you stop staring already?" Layle looks up at Keiss' face for the first time in the past ten minutes, and furrows his eyebrows. He then proceeds to go right back to staring at the redhead's crotch, an expression of thought coloring his face. Keiss huffs and jabs his index finger at Layle's chest—"I told you to stop staring, Crystal Bearer."

The Clavat looks up again, frowning. He doesn't try to talk at first; just scratches the back of his neck, and straightens his back out before once again trying to peek a glance at the Selkie's genitals, which earns him a right proper punch in the shoulder. Layle grimaces at the contact before sighing and rubbing the spot that was hit with his opposite hand.

Keiss glares at him for a moment longer before sighing himself and rubbing his face. "What."

The blond looks up again, and Keiss doesn't even bother trying to smack any sense into him. "What is it exactly that's bothering you so much?"

Layle, who's been mute up until this point, opens and closes his mouths a few times before finally spitting it out: "Your dick is huge, dude. Kinda puts a dent in my pride."

Keiss just grumbles as he hoists himself off of the bed and yanks on his boxers.

**4.**

_There really should be a time and place for this_, he thinks.

He feels the grip on his jaw tighten and Layle's tongue dips in again—Keiss gasps like he always does, and his sword calloused hand twitches underneath the fabric of Layle's shirt. There's a vibration in the Selkie's mouth, and a moronic sounding noise in the depths of the cavern as the blond tries to speak, inherently having forgotten that they were engaged in a practice commonly referred to as sucking face. He pulls his chin back slightly, and Keiss coughs, removing his right hand from the back of the Clavat's neck and using its backside to wipe his mouth.

"What?" Though the one worded fragment is traditionally a question, the way Keiss says it, it sounds more like an annoyed statement.

"You look beautiful?" There's laughter in the crystal bearer's voice, and Keiss can feel his red hair being pressed against the other's forehead as he closes in, crowding the Selkie against the rugged cavern wall. Keiss can hear the crashing noises of Convenant falls behind them. He huffs a sigh and bumps the blond's head back. Layle is quiet as Keiss makes to rest his face in the crook of the other's neck, using his hands to pull him into a proper hug.

"It's a wonder why you can't find a nice girl to settle down with," the redhead mutters, the static of the falls muting him out to the point he's surprised that Layle can even hear him.

There's a slight sound of shifting fabric as a back is once again pressed up against the rocks, and as Layle's surprisingly soft hands press against Keiss' stomach and slide upwards, rolling up his thin sweater. Keiss' stills himself, leaning against the rigid and solid surface, his palms pressed to the blond's shoulder blades, urging him closer as he closes his eyes.

He allows the quietest and lowest of moans slip out of his mouth as a Layle begins to speak hushed words into the cavern of his red tinged ear, his hands seeming to know just the right places to touch.

Keiss doesn't ask for more, and Layle doesn't try for more, even as his leg is pressed between the other's. They both know more would lead to physical evidence like hickeys and scratches; something to be seen by the naked eye, and something that can't be denied when the two finally leave this dimly lit place.

Layle lets out the shell of a breath as Keiss begins to press his lips up, down, and around his neck and jaw. "Yeah," he manages shakily, prying his sticky fingers from the Selkie's ribcage and using it to make it so the back of Keiss' head is resting gingerly against the cave's wall. Layle leans in and eases their foreheads together, staring at the other's face.

A dull shade of turquoise light colors its contours.

"It's a real wonder, isn't it?"

The words run dry as he cranes his neck and presses their lips together.


	2. Chapter 2

because you said please. no real warnings for this one, mentions of Belle, has some religious elements. it's not particularirly romantic, but it is still centric around Keiss and Layle and their relationship. i guess it's kind of charater study-esque.

**5.**

_Pondering your own existence is a waste of time._

Did Layle honestly believe that?

Of course he did.

Layle didn't lie; he had no reason to. He had nothing to gain from lying, and nothing to lose from telling the truth.

Keiss guessed things must've been an awful lot easier that way, at least compared to the way he (himself) had learned to live. Behind every corner of his mind was another deception, and in each tiny crack hid the guilt he held for each lie.

Needless to say, there were plenty of corners and tiny cracks in the Selkie's mind.

And to ponder his existence was often times all he could think to do.

What was left to do after the crystal bearer had gone missing?

Sure, as the guild master, he was to keep things in check—he had promised himself that he would better the Selkie tribe. Turn them nobler; enforce a sense of pride to his people.

And of course, he was more or less right hand man of the chief detective in Layle's missing person's case. Who was the top dog in this case?

Belle.

Belle: the woman who loved that over confident Clavat more than anything, and cared of nothing else aside from his whereabouts. Though she certainly knew what she was doing, and had good intentions, Keiss knew she really couldn't help it—

She just made trouble.

It was what she did, it was who she was, and often times her most 'legit' information lead to some of the most dangerous places in the Lilty kingdom, and despite what she said, Keiss knew that she could simply _not _handle it solo.

Because it was reckless, because she didn't _really _know what she was getting into, and because _for gods' sake_, he had qualms against it.

His mind would never rest if he knew he'd let Belle take on all the weight of finding his best friend, and all those tiny cracks would turn into one undeniably _not _so tiny crack, and for all he knew his mind might just split in half, and all the guilt and lies would just gush and spill out, leaving nothing but the remnants of tiny membranes and memories in the Selkie guild master's brain.

**6.**

Layle had always oddly been envious of the way Keiss was able to carry himself.

Filled with honor, and an almost smugness for his heritage (certainly, it was better than being a dumb old Clavat)—and yet, not afraid to do what he knew would be good, or even better for himself.

Now, here was the odd part—

Layle was also jealous of the pure _femininity _Keiss somehow maintained.

The way he swayed his hips, struck girlish poses, and his hair—Layle had been so sure that the Selkie had been a 'Miss' when they'd first met.

An incredulous look and two punches to the stomach later, he was found a whole new level of wrong.

Cid had been the one to introduce them. He'd said Keiss had 'unique' views, and ambitions as tall as the sky itself—

He'd also said that Keiss was far more accountable than Blaze, which was most definitely a plus.

Trying to convince the Selkie to become working partners was certainly _something. _Layle had pretty much earned all his hate with his 'what a beauty' comment, which hurt his ego quite a bit—after all, it seemed to work on more or less every other Selkie woman in existence.

Of course, Keiss wasn't a woman (it was those curves, he swore it).

So, he approached Keiss again, while the Selkie was observing the local smith's shop. Layle walked up, and thinking now, he remembers how different walking around felt without the jacket Cid had given him.

Regardless, he stuffed his large knuckled hands into his pockets and stood, attempting to look aloof beside the future colonel, his stomach still sore as he coughed slightly to get Keiss' attention.

Keiss gave him a sharp sideways glance that made him wish he was wearing body armor (later that day, he convinced Cid to craft him a heavy plate for his chest, which only made him feel a bit more secure), and then returned his focus to the Lilty smith as he pounded at a piece of metal, still a dull and glowing red.

Layle's ego didn't even register the concept of being ignored.

No, it made him think that maybe, no, _most likely _Keiss just hadn't recognized him. So, he side shuffled a couple half inches closer, and started with a simple one syllable word.

"Hi."

Keiss didn't look up as Layle heard the hiss of scorching steel hitting water; just said this:

"I'm not gay."

**7.**

Belle was nice.

But Keiss was _benevolent. _

Belle was pretty.

But Keiss was _handsome._

And god damn, if Belle was annoying, but Keiss was simply _aggravating._

**8.**

Althea knows about this kind of thing.

She has to.

"Lady Althea, I think I'm gay."

She stops sipping her canned tea, and Mia shifts in her lap and she lifts her petit hand from the ferret's back. The Lilty queen blinks and slowly turns to look at the Selkie beside her.

"Um, Keiss—"

"No, no it's okay, Just forget it," he says hastily as he returns to squeezing his disposable water bottle.

The sound of Fountain Park fills their ears, and Keiss watches as the liquid in the battle swells and recedes with the flexes of his fingers.

"I didn't know you were straight…" Althea finally murmurs, her vision laid about the cobblestone paved ground.

**9.**

"You look cold."

Keiss makes an irritated tsking noise, and tries his best to not pull out every last strand of his red hair.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Layle shrugs.

"Crystal bearer, I'm serious." He folds his arms over his chest and glares at the blond through his Maplewood eyes.

It had been complete luck that the guild master had found the Clavat here, at the Rivelgauge monastery, the priest having told the Selkie that there was a new soul there, one that wished to repent and be clean—

Only about as clean as a moldy refrigerator, he was sure.

Hell, the guy still didn't agree to wear the robes—Clavats really were too kind for their own good.

"Why don't you tell me what _you're _doing here; shouldn't you be doing high commander things? "

Keiss' brows knit together. "I'm not the high commander."

There's a mild expression of surprise coloring the blonde's face, and he turns his body in the mahogany bench, his eyes as misty as the fountain they're focused on. This place is icy cold, and lit like a cave—Keiss looks back at the doors leading to the confession rooms, contrastingly warm candle light filtering through the glazing and onto the stony church floor.

"Did you take Vaigali's place?" Layle finally asks, his voice low and quiet—he seems to be listening to the burble of the water.

"Someone had to."

The blond watches Keiss' face contort through his eyelashes, idly pulling at the rings on his fingers.

Keiss sneezes.

Layle starts to chuckle, but it dies in his throat—for whatever reason, he can't keep it fluttering there or even in his belly, even as the redhead shoves his fingers into his armpits and shakes his head.

"It's not quite as warm in here as it is on your air ship is it?"

"Belle took it, so I guess I wouldn't know." A smile starts to infect the Clavat's face, and the guild master scowls as he catches sight of it. "Man, shut up. This is _your_ entirefault."

"I didn't say anything," he says with humor, closing his eyes and relaxing into the back of the bench and completely disregarding the second part. "So how did you get up here, then?"

The former colonel wipes his nose. "I got a Yuke to help me."

Layle doesn't bother to ask about how his first experience with teleporting was—the pout on his face tells all, and if anything, it just makes Layle say it again: "You look cold."

"I am," he says begrudgingly, slapping his barren knees.

"You should get a scarf or something," the blond replies blowing his breath into the fur trim of his coat. Keiss just makes a grumpy 'hm' noise, and shifts uncomfortably when Layle scoots a centimeter or two closer, leaving just an inch of polished timber between the two of them.

Layle leans his elbows onto his knees, and the redhead returns his stare by looking up at the painted ceiling of the altar. They continue on like this for a couple lengthy minutes, until Keiss' neck gets tired and he's forced to look down again; the Clavat is still resting his eyes on the guild master, and he can't help but feel a bit unsettled.

"Something wrong?" Layle is the one to break the silence.

The Selkie takes a breath. "No," he mutters, offering a wry smile. "It's just been a while."

Layle's fingers twitch slightly, and his blond, feathery hair moves with them. He looks away from Keiss' face and at the back of the bench, but only for a moment as he replies, his voice low—"Yeah."

When his vision lays itself over Keiss' face again, neither can find anything to say. The redhead tries to begin—"Listen, I"— and when he gets a look at Layle, sitting there, his ears wide open, the words just shrivel up in his mouth, and he heaves a sigh.

"I've been going to confession a lot." Layle leans back into the bench, his chainmail clinking against the wood.

"I never figured you as the religious type." The reply comes delayed, as Keiss is rather unsure of how to reply to such a simple statement.

"It helps get things off my chest."

The redhead shifts in the hard seat. "What kind of things?"

Layle looks at him through his peripheral, then shifts his vision forward again. "Nothing, really."

"Nothing, _really?" _The guild master's voice is filled with skepticism. "_Really _makes me think you must have some _really _awful kind of _nothing."_

"It's a _nothing _that should be pretty easy for you to figure out."

Keiss scowls at how cryptic the guy is sounding. "I ought to punch you."

Layle pulls up a smile. "How's about a kiss instead?"


	3. Chapter 3

I don't think there's anything left of the canon that I can squeeze these two out of, so this fic is probably going to be left alone for a long while.

**10.**

Today reality is a bit blander. The saltine crunch of existence gums up around his teeth with a bit more vividness. He sits, his heart feeling mundane and his mind feeling vexed with the routine chore of breathing.

It's odd; cold—it's chilly in the captain's room today. But Keiss isn't shivering. His skin bears no goose bumps, his straight teeth are unmoving and unruffled, and he most certainly cannot see the perspiration in his breath float up into the wooden paneling.

Yet the truth still stands: it is cold.

It's been this way for the longest while—since Layle's gone proverbially missing.

Belle stops by often, going on about new info this and new info that—but Keiss is far-gone from any sort of hope that may linger, and Belle is not too far behind, judging from the flirty demeanor she's somewhat regained. He can't say he blames her as she lays her hand over his, giggling as she tells him about where the latest trail has lead.

"You know I don't have time for this, Belle."

She frowns—"No time for your best friend? He could be out there—"

"I meant this," he says as he lifts his hand from beneath hers and stands from the gaudily upholstered sofa. The smile shading his face is sad, eyes to match when she draws her appendage close to her chest and stares at is, flexing her fingers.

It's as if it was faulty.

After Belle has come and gone, Keiss sits again and breathes in the smell of the shipwreck. Salt, timber, preserved and rotted fish.

"Where the hell are you?" The words come out as if he has the worst case of dry mouth. He leans back into the cushions and pulls his worn bandana over his eyelids. His wrists lay limp and folded between his lax legs.

Breathe, Keiss, breathe—it's the best you can do, now.

* * *

In his dream, the air is humid and heavy like it ought to be. The smell of the ocean assaults his nostrils, and he can hear the crashing of the falls—a smack to the face and his clothes become weighty. There is no more air, and his sinuses fill with icy, stinging fluid.

He has to breathe, has to breathe—it's all he can do, but he can't.

Someone shouts his name, and for a brief moment his mouth is above the splashing current—he takes in a raspy breath of that humid and heavy air. A hand, a hand—

"Keiss!" but there's still nothing as he keeps his eyes plastered together—the water encases his body, and then _fwoom. _He can feel bubbles of air between the fabric of his sweater and the smooth, sun burnt expanse of his shoulder blades. Suddenly he's alive, he's so very alive when he resurfaces from the pit of the falls—what drips from his hair, his nose, his eyes, and his whole being is all around him; water, water, everywhere.

He makes slow strokes to the entrance of the cove—the sunset is bright and burns into his retinas. A deep breath, and he hefts himself onto the rock faced surface, small bits of gravel and sand kneading into his palms. Droplets splatter and dot the ground as he adjusts his favorite golden emblem'd bandana. Keiss is misty eyed as he faces the mast of the Selkie Guild.

That old man is fishing beneath all the nets and ladders again. His face is a blur—Keiss can't see the creases of his brow or the sparse white hairs of the man's eyebrows. There's a grunt-like sigh behind him, and then the sound of sopping wet Clavat.

"Sorry—" He hears himself talk. "I messed up back there."

"Looks like we're at the Sel–" the voice behind his cuts off into a mumble of white noise and snow.

"Yeah," Keiss replies anyway. "Home, sweet home–" He turns half way, and Layle pulls himself out of the water.

"I guess." The words fall out of his mouth and flutter; he feels as if a puff of smoke has just cascaded its way through his lungs and esophagus. Layle starts to talk again, and he undoes his jacket, the brass lock turning with a gentle movement of ringed fingers.

Keiss feels his own lips move, but nothing rings in his ears as Layle clicks the buckle of his body armor and crouches over his back, the back of his stained shirt shifting as he shoves his jacket into his tiny bag. The blonde's musings about Vaigali come out muted, and although the phenomena of the rhythm of his voice beating on Keiss' ears still remains, his face begins to dissolve into sand.

His full image echoes only once as he walks near the ledge of the cliff, standing near the Selkie.

"—had money—" a wry smile curls itself onto his features, and Keiss watches the way his lips shape and carve out the unheard syllables. "—long time ago."

He fades like a piano note and Keiss blinks unhurriedly, his eyelashes fluttering up with resistance. He drifts down down, down, down—whether or not it's towards the ground, he can't be sure. His shirt billows up and his bandana, trembling, heads upwards off his head as if it had tiny fruit fly wings.

Everything is tinged blue, and he breathes in like he's drowning, which is not at all, as his hair drags itself into his vision. When he lands, the air is frigid and dry, and the sky is frozen over with whiteness and the wind chafes his nose. Keiss shakes out a breath from his lungs. The gloves of his Altifaria issued uniform hug his fingers– "said you would ignore it until we settled the issue with the Yuke."

"I see no Yuke. Capture the fugitive."

Keiss pulls his wine colored eyes to the courtyard, where Layle _should _be, but _isn't. There _is not where a still figure is standing and _there _is not where a blond, 21 year old Clavat stands. There is no one there.

There is only a flattened expanse of snow and grayed, dead branches.

* * *

Keiss wakes feeling bleary. Everything is dark, and _oh god, has he gone blind?_

He starts and jerks himself forward, and bangs his knee of the cherry finished coffee table—a string of foul language follows afterwards when his head accessory flies itself down into his lap. With a steady yet quivering movement, the guild master checks his temperature.

Cold.

Yet, with his sticky fingers, he folds his bandana into a tiny triangle and sets it on the stoutly table and sets himself out for a walk.


End file.
